


The Frailty of Genius

by ivoryandhorn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Murder Mystery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt (brief/averted)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-12 23:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoryandhorn/pseuds/ivoryandhorn
Summary: Jim Moriarty solves problems. The interesting ones, anyway. Anything to keep from being bored (and he is often so very, very bored). Then a mildly amusing case of textual harassment draws him to a string of serial suicides, raising old enemies and putting Jim in the opening moves of someone else’s mysterious game.---(In which Jim Moriarty is the world’s first consulting detective, and Sherlock Holmes is the world’s first consulting criminal. Covers Sherlock S1E1: A Study in Pink.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **More info on the suicide-related tags.**  
In the prologue, Jim gets close to but does not go through with a suicide attempt. I suggest [skipping the prologue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484294/chapters/51202750#workskin) if you want to avoid it. You won't miss anything important.
> 
> However, throughout the rest of the fic, Jim also has repeated suicidal thoughts. It's hard to give more specific warnings because it's a recurring theme of his narration.
> 
> I consider all of this to be in line with Jim's characterization in canon, and not worse than anything that happens in canon, given the end of S2. But, I wanted to give a more elaborate warning so people know what they're getting into.

Once upon a time, there was a mirror. People don’t really like mirrors. They see too clearly, show off all your flaws, and have no concept of mercy. 

To keep from being shattered by people, the mirror learned to steal from its reflections. A gesture here, an expression there. It stole and stole and stole, until it had gathered enough bits and pieces to look like a person itself. It could appear marvellously similar to a person. In fact, it could appear marvellously similar to most any kind of person at all. 

Truthfully, the mirror didn’t really like being a person. People were boring. Being a person was worse. Especially when being a person was just a matter of scrambling the right bits and pieces to look like whatever people wanted to see. What the mirror really wanted was to find another mirror, one as bright and clear and brutal as itself. Then it could forget about being a person and be a proper mirror like it was supposed to be. 

But all the mirror ever saw around it were people.

  


* * *

  


Jim Moriarty sat in a very comfortable armchair in his very expensive condo with the barrel of a gun in his mouth.

It was half past nine in the morning. He was thinking of reasons to pull the trigger.

  1. Bored.
  2. Bored.
  3. Bored.
  4. Bored. 
  5. Bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored BORED.

Reasons one through five had always been extremely compelling. Extremely compelling indeed.

He was also thinking of reasons to _not_ pull the trigger.

  1. Really? Shooting yourself in your living room? That’s it? What kind of headline is “Sad Man Eats Bullet”? The answer is it isn’t, because that’s not a headline, that’s not even half an inch on the back pages, that’s _nothing._ That’s just _life._
  2. If you’re going to go to the trouble of offing yourself, the least you could do is do it with style. Put your back into it. But no, it’s just this. This is all you’ve got. Sad Man Eats Bullet.
  3. Is that all you are, Jim Moriarty? Just an ordinary little man, in his ordinary little flat, blowing his ordinary little brains out with an ordinary little bullet? 
  4. Is that what you are, James? 
  5. Ordinary?

Jim Moriarty pulled the gun out of his mouth, flicked on the safety, wiped off the spit, and set it down on his favorite fake antique side table with a gentle click.

It was not the right day to die.


	2. The Scratch on the Floor

A business card handed from one mate to another that reads, in elegant red letters:

MORIARTY  
Interesting Problems Solved  
_Don’t waste my time._  
hi@moriarty.org

“Strange fellow. Threatened to skin me,” said the man handing it over. The one who takes it is grey-haired and tired-looking, but he looks over the card with interest before pocketing it. “But I’ll tell you this, he gets the job done. If he takes you on, he’ll bloody well get the job done. Just have to get him to take it, first.”

  


* * *

  


A well-dressed man, dead in a half-built office. 

A college boy, dead by a closed sports center.

A young politician, dead in a night-time building site.

Three pills. Three suicides. Simple.

  


* * *

  


Jonah Kent was a rookie reporter on the crime beat. He wore a cheap suit that was half a size too big, he checked Twitter too much on the job, and his glasses had one cracked and hastily repaired arm. He wore his press pass with an air of slight desperation: _I belong here, I really do! I’m a real reporter!_

He was a mousy, earnest little thing, easy for Jim to play on auto. It free him up to keep his attention on the rest of the room. At the front of the room, behind a table resplendent in cheap blue tablecloth, seated before a mic and looking as if he desperately wished to be anywhere else, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan were struggling through a statement about the absolute mess Scotland Yard was making of the recent and much celebrated “serial suicides.” 

Every phone in the room dinged along as Lestrade’s mysterious serial texter chimed in:

> Wrong!
> 
> Wrong!
> 
> Wrong!

Jim watched the sender-less texts pop up on his phone with interest, not least because Jonah Kent wasn’t on Scotland Yard’s official press list. DI Lestrade had, two days ago, sent a politely worded but still transparently desperate request to Jim’s public email, asking for help figuring out who was harassing the press and the cops with these high-handed and anonymous contradictions. The request had wound its way through a labyrinth of decoys and proxies to the inbox of Jim’s actual email, the one that also got his Amazon delivery notifications and newsletters from edgy mathematics journals, whereupon he had deemed Lestrade’s predicament to be mildly interesting, enough so for Jim to give it at least a cursory look. “Mildly interesting” was enough to stave off a bullet breakfast for another couple of days at least.

This, though, was more than _mildly_ interesting. Why was Jonah Kent, fake reporter, getting a mass text along with all the real reporters, when no one except James Moriarty knew that Jonah Kent was even in the room?

A room, he further observed, that was full of genuinely surprised and frustrated reporters. He had contrived to steal a seat in the middle-ish, where he could get a quick feel for the tone of the crowd. Jim glanced around himself in well-feigned confusion, a cascade of body language, facial expressions, half-heard vocalisations cataloged in a flash. Conclusion: the mystery texter probably wasn’t in the room. Well, that eliminated a few possibilities for how the texter had gotten Jonah Kent onto his recipient list. 

From the look of things, the texter had not been shy about harassing the coppers in the room either. Donovan’s face pinched with old anger, while Lestrade merely looked resigned. Public humiliation must be so difficult.

Jim picked one of the texts at random and started a backtrace. He was using an app he’d commissioned from his second favorite techie (the first had been, alas, unavailable). If it worked, it would pinpoint the location of the sender, and then Jim would really be going places with this little problem. He spent the rest of the press conference, such as it was, contemplating the number of ways you could kill yourself with a biro. Stabbing oneself through the eyeball sounded intriguingly gory and suitably dramatic, but he was dubious about the ability to accurately stab out the brain when busy psyching up to stab oneself in the eye in the first place. Going about life with a pen in the head, even very briefly, sounded distinctly _unfun_.

He slipped out with the rest of the reporters, making sure to get lost once or twice in New Scotland Yard so he could case the layout of the police station and spread Jonah Kent’s face about a little. Out in the street, he shuffled a few blocks to the nearest cafe, paying for a rather sad black coffee before taking a seat, just as he felt the buzz of a new notification. Jim checked his phone.

The notification read:

> BACKTRACE FAILED 

Well! That closed a few doors, and possibly opened a few other ones. He’d have to get in touch with his second favorite techie and see what that was all about.

Just as he was puzzling over his next move, his phone buzzed again. A new text appeared. Like the others he’d received, it listed no sender, and simply read:

> Patience.

Jim felt his pulse pick up. Now _this_ was even more than more-than-mildly interesting. What had seemed like a bit of technologically advanced but ultimately harmless pranking was starting to look far more intriguing. He replied:

> Tease.  
JM

The response came immediately:

> How do you feel about serial killers?

  


> Love them.  
JM

  


> Consider this one a gift to tide you over.

Jim felt a very un-Jonah-like grin split his face.

A lift like champagne bubbles flooded his body, and he recognized it for what it was, a conviction that hovered somewhere between inspiration and instinct. The mystery texter could be lying about his involvement in the serial suicides, but everything in Jim was shouting that he wasn’t. Despite appearances, Jim was a man not unused to logic and orderly thinking. He was (well, had been, in another life that was over and done with and far away) a mathematician and an astronomer. He loved classical music. One did not pursue these fields without an understanding of, a love for, rigorous proofs and known patterns; the details that turned a triumph into a disaster and vice versa; the certainty of knowing that X always equalled Y except when it didn’t. (He still messed about with the p = np problem from time to time. It was so delightfully nonsensical. Also, _annoying._ Math shouldn’t work that way. Jim had very strong feelings about maths.) 

But the counterbalance to all of that was that sometimes, perhaps even fairly frequently if he had to be honest, Jim was overcome by impulses that weren’t logical or pattern-based at all. He’d learned to recognize it and follow it; his intuition had only ever failed him when he ignored it. And what it was telling him, now, was that the mystery texter had something big, much bigger than some bothersome texts or some silly suicides-that-weren’t, in store. How, he didn’t know. What, he didn’t know either. The answer was rattling about out there in the big bad world.

Suddenly, life beyond the next couple of days was looking extremely interesting indeed.

Back at home, Jim got comfy with his laptop and began the long process of bouncing through yet another labyrinth of security measures before opening a secure, totally anonymous chat window on someone else’s computer (Thank you, favorite techie!). A corresponding grey box popped open on DI Lestrade’s work monitor. 

Jim typed:

> M_CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE NEXT ONE.

It was followed by his personal phone number, one which allowed calls and texts to bypass all the various proxies and voice mail boxes he usually hid behind.

> L_THE NEXT WHAT?
> 
> M_THE NEXT MURDER. 
> 
> L_HOW DO YOU KNOW THERE’S GOING TO BE A NEXT ONE?
> 
> M_THREE IN THE BAG AND YOU’RE NOT EVEN CLOSE ENOUGH TO CHECK OUT HIS ASS? OF COURSE THERE’S GOING TO BE A NEXT ONE.
> 
> L_WHAT ABOUT THE TEXTS?
> 
> M_SERIAL KILLERS ARE MORE INTERESTING.  
M_YOUR CODE WORD, BY THE BY, IS “BALL GAG.”
> 
> L_CODE WORD?
> 
> M_FOR WHEN YOU CALL ME ON THAT NUMBER UP THERE AND VERY NICELY INVITE ME TO THE CRIME SCENE BECAUSE YOU’RE DESPERATE FOR A LEAD.  
M_AND I, IN TURN, VERY NICELY TURN UP AT THE CRIME SCENE WITHOUT ASKING FOR PAYMENT IN ORDER TO GIVE YOU ONE.  
M_CONGRATULATIONS, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LESTRADE.  
M_YOU’VE ACQUIRED MY PERSONAL ATTENTION.  
M_TRY NOT TO WASTE IT.

  


* * *

  


Jim passed a very unhappy day waiting for Lestrade to call. He put on some Rachmaninoff, then _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ reruns, and then a 2009 production of _Turandot_ he’d been meaning to get around to for weeks. He even tried yoga for about five minutes before remembering why he didn’t, as a rule, do yoga. As the clock slowly ticked into the evening with not a single word, he considered going out for dinner, for a drink, to a club where he could find someone to fuck his brain into some brief and blessed silence in some cheap hotel. Perhaps consecutively or, if he was feeling particularly ambitious, concurrently.

But then he’d have to strip out of his suit and he didn’t really feel like digging out some suitably slutty club wear anyway. What he _wanted_ was the serial killer he’d been promised. What he wanted was for Lestrade to stop messing around and call. No, he wouldn’t go out. He’d just have to sit at home and slowly lose his mind. Yes, that was the answer. Slowly losing his mind.

He stared at the gun on his side-table for a long moment before turning on some music. Any music. Anything to pass the time.

The dulcet tones of the Chordettes filled the air: _Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream… Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen... _

  


* * *

  


Detective Inspector Lestrade picked up the business card a friend had handed him three months and change ago and studied it. He could tell the paper good quality, not the usual cheap stuff business cards were printed on. It had heft and grain. Texture. What had his friend said about him? _Strange fellow. He gets the job done. Just have to get him to take it._

Well, he already knew the case was interesting enough. Moriarty had offered to help him already. Personally, even, when people said he never had direct contact with anyone. Ever.

Lestrade set the card down and stared at a sticky note dangling off the side of his work monitor. He’d written it down from a grey chat box, no name attached, and then proceeded to stare at it for a month. The reasons for that piled up behind his teeth, and probably they were even good ones, but when you got right down to it, here were the facts:

Four months.

Four deaths.

He was desperate.

Lestrade picked up his mobile and dialed.

  


* * *

  


Jim could have simply _danced_ when he saw Lestrade’s name pop up on caller ID, along with a blast of the _William Tell Overture_ (programmed in especially for the boys in blue, since they were going to become such close friends and all). And dance he did as he gleefully answered the call and said, with all the affronted impatience he could muster, “Yes?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Is this...Moriarty?”

“Who else would it be?” Jim said, making sure to sound as bored as possible, though he could barely contain his excitement at finally, _finally_ getting a crack at his gift. 

“Well, yes, uh…” Lestrade trailed off as he tried to ask for Jim’s help without actually _asking for help._

Jim wanted to let him dangle a bit longer, may string him along until he begged, just for the sheer pleasure of it, but he wanted in on the serial killer even more. He decided to take pity on the DI. “Alright, where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The body,” Jim said impatiently, not dancing quite so gleefully anymore. Why were ordinary people so _slow._ “The new one, the one that made you even think of giving me a ring. _Where is it?_”

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“There’s got to be something else. Something that made you not just think about calling me, but actually do it. What is it?”

“Who said there was something else?” Lestrade’s tone was guarded.

“You did, just now,” Jim grinned. Sometimes a reaction was as good as a _yes_. “Spill, dearest.”

“She left a note.”

“Oh, that _is_ exciting! I’ll be right on my way. And remember: ball gag.”

He hung up and raced downstairs to hail a cab without even bothering to pull on a coat. Who could stand bothering with things like coats when they had a lovely little gift from a far more interesting opponent than a garden variety serial killer waiting for them?

It was full dark by the time Jim’s cab pulled up to the street where the building with the murder victim stood, and cold enough for him to wish he’d paused to grab a coat before dashing out after all. 

Jim strolled up to the police cordon where Sergeant Sally Donovan was standing by a patrol car; she seemed to be the closest thing to someone in charge down here. He kept his posture slouched and gait easy: he wasn’t playing anyone but Jim Moriarty now, and oh, how he did like to be Jim Moriarty.

“Street’s closed,” she said as he approached. Arms crossed, feet shoulder width’s apart; ah, authority, how similar it looks on whoever wears it. “This is a crime scene. Turn around.”

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Jim announced.

“Why?”

“I was invited.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you call him and ask?” Jim said, sweet as arsenic.

Donovan tried to stare him down. Jim just stood there and smiled. He had ever so many smiles, and he wasn’t wearing a particularly nice one. He reserved it for people who were _in his way._

She blinked first. Lifting a walkie-talkie to her lips, eyes never leaving him, Donovan said, “Sir. Got someone here who says he was invited.”

Lestrade’s muffled and crackly voice came through. “Who is it?”

Donovan looked at him, clearly expecting a name. Jim leaned in close--too close, uncomfortably close, and he well knew it--to say, directly into the walkie-talkie, “Ball gag.”

There was quite a long pause. Lestrade said carefully, “Mr. Moriarty?”

“Tell your guard dog to heel.”

“...Donovan, Mr. Moriarty’s here at my request as...a consultant.” Lestrade sighed. “I’ll be down to fetch him in a minute.”

That left Jim waiting with her in the dark. It was getting a bit nippy out. He ought to have brought gloves. That was what enthusiasm got you, he mused: cold fingers.

“So,” Donovan said, clearly gearing up for an interrogation, “why are you here?”

“To consult. I’m a consultant.” Hadn’t Lestrade just said as much? Honestly.

“On murders.” 

“On funny little puzzles that ordinary people can’t solve.”

“There’s a woman dead up there, and you think it’s just some funny little puzzle?” Ah, there it was, good old righteous fury. Boring. Especially in a copper.

“Isn’t it?” Jim asked, all innocence. “Get all the pieces in the right place and…” He lifted his hands flicked out all his fingers at once. _Ta-da!_ “Suddenly you’ve got a picture of a daisy, as opposed to an assortment of cardboard shapes.”

“And you think you can make a daisy when Scotland Yard can’t,” she scoffed.

“I know I can, and so does your DI, because here he comes now.” Jim ducked around her and under the caution tape before she could protest.

Lestrade slowed to a stop as Jim approached. “Mr. Moriarty?” he said again. Jim knew the picture he must make: a smallish man in a very good suit, an Irish accent in the middle of London. Bad posture. No coat.

“Ball gag,” Jim repeated, quite firmly. He held out a hand to shake, which Lestrade took--nice firm grip he had--and Lestrade’s hand pulled away with one of Jim’s business cards tucked in his palm. 

“Smooth,” Lestrade said, squinting at the little cream-colored rectangle. Jim could tell he was a little impressed. 

“Shall we?” Jim said, stepping around him toward the building.

Lestrade, still looking extremely uncertain about the whole business, caught up with him quickly. Jim took in the building’s facade and all the bustle around it with one quick look--not least of which was the way the police worked, the way they moved. Always good to know how the not-quite-opposition worked.

They were stopped by the front door by a skinny fellow with a bad dye job, drowning in a shapeless blue body-suit. Forensics, then. “Who’s this?” he demanded imperiously, looking down at Jim. Not that that was difficult for most people, but Jim felt condescended to anyway. The rudeness of this twig.

“Anderson,” Lestrade said. Or sighed. Jim could feel the put-upon-ness wafting off of him already. “This is Mr. Moriarty. He’s consulting on our latest serial suicide.”

“_Consulting?_” Anderson squawked, outraged. “You’re going to just let some--_civilian_\--blunder around my crime scene? He’s going to contaminate everything.”

“I’m sure Mr. Moriarty will take all due precaution,” Lestrade said, though he certainly had had no assurance of any such thing. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

“Won’t be more than a couple of minutes,” Jim said cheerfully. “Don’t need any more than that.”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “This is a crime scene. You’re here by the grace of some mad notion of Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mind your tongue.” He made to wag a finger at Jim; Jim caught it before he could get more than half a wag in. He was small, yes, but he was faster than most people gave him credit for, and from the look on Anderson’s face, he hadn’t been expecting Jim to be quite so quick in the reflexes.

He could have broken Anderson’s finger right there, but that would have made the entirely wrong impression. Jim settled for tossing Anderson’s hand aside like so much rubbish. “Lestrade? Any more dogs I need to worry about?”

“No...no, that’s the last of them,” Lestrade gingerly steered Jim around Anderson by the shoulder. “We’ll be careful. This way, Mr. Moriarty.”

“Jim,” Jim said absently, as they continued into the crowded building. 

“Jim?” Lestrade stopped him at some table of forensics supplies and handed him a pair of latex gloves, followed by one of the shapeless blue suits. Jim kept the first; he dropped the other and kicked it under the table. Lestrade either didn’t notice (Jim _was_ standing behind him) or decided he didn’t care as much about contamination as Anderson did.

“That’s my name,” he said as they headed up the stairs. They were dusty, covered in peeling paint and moldy at the corners. The wallpaper was gaudy even in the dim light and must have been a sight when the building had been in its full glory. The deserted flats they passed were bare of everything except busy-looking police types and cobwebs. “Mr. Moriarty’s going to get old very quickly if we’re going to work together. Colleagues should know each other by name, don’t you think, Greg?”

“Lestrade, please. Only my mum calls me Greg.” He rounded a landing and continued upwards. “Is it alright, me knowing your name?”

“Why wouldn’t it be alright?” Damn these old buildings and their lack of elevators. Though they’d have been stuck waiting forever for an elevator, given the number of police types crawling all over everything. Perhaps the stairs were better after all.

“Thought you were supposed to be, you know, a man of mystery. No one knows his name, ooh, that type of thing.”

“Most people don’t,” Jim felt compelled to point out. He did not mention the many people who knew him under a completely different name from James (Jim) Moriarty altogether. “While I do normally cultivate and enjoy a good air of mystery, I’ve already come to meet you in person, so a name’s just practicality at this point.”

“Jim. Jim Moriarty,” Lestrade mused. He stopped at the top of the building by an open door filled with bright lights on stands. Jim stopped with him, taking in the very pink corpse that lay within. “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We’re running them for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.” Lestrade glanced at him. “By the way, I hope you weren’t boasting, because two minutes is all you’re getting.”

Jim snapped on his gloves and stepped inside. “You insult me. Good thing you’re pretty.”

He didn’t wait to see if Lestrade would actually do it. He forgot about Lestrade, still mouthing _Pretty?_ to himself by the doorway; about Anderson and his condescension; Donovan and her righteous sneer. He forgot about his mystery texter and serial killer. Everything evaporated except for this room, this puzzle--except for the solution that must exist, somewhere in the big bad world. Jim could feel his thoughts vibrating at attention, an orchestra quivering in perfect harmony, waiting for the conductor’s metronome cue. (Normally his brain felt more like a thousand garage bands banging about their parents’ garages: a mess hardly even worth the effort of acknowledging.) The sensation sang through his spine and made everything bright, crisp, sharp. 

God, how he loved this. If only it could be like this all the time. Then he might put the gun away for good.

Jim kept up an absent running patter he stalked around the body formerly known as Jennifer Wilson. “What’s this? ‘Rache’...funny sort of note. Left hand, she was left-handed.” He swiped the back of her coat with light fingers, studying the reflection off the latex. “Wet. Soaked! But what’s this?” Jim produced her umbrella, collapsed, dry, and surprisingly not pink. “Her umbrella’s all dry?” He set it aside and slid his fingers under her coat collar. “Wet here too… Lestrade, give me your magnifying glass.”

“I haven’t got a magnifying glass.”

“You _haven’t got a magnifying glass?_” Jim glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade in disbelief. “You’re Scotland Yard! What am I even paying taxes for, then?” He pulled out his phone instead, zooming in the camera all the way. He had very steady hands, steadier than people seemed to generally assumed. Jim hovered over her jewelry: ring, bracelet, necklace. “Clean, clean, clean,” he muttered. “But what’s this? Oh, what a dirty little ring we have here.” He set down his phone and gently slid off the battered wedding ring. “But clean as a whistle on the inside.” Jim smiled as pieces tumbled into place. “Someone was a naughty bird, wasn’t she?” He replaced the ring and stood, satisfied. 

“Have you got anything?” Lestrade asked. He was obviously curious; the expression enlivened his tired face.

“Oh yes, plenty,” Jim said, stripping off his gloves. 

“She’s German,” Anderson said suddenly from the doorway. Jim carefully didn’t startle: he hadn’t noticed his arrival. “_Rache_. That’s German for ‘revenge.’”

Jim turned, gave Anderson a long look, then turned the look on Lestrade. “Tell your dog to shoo.”

Lestrade turned a warning look on Anderson before he could say yet another regrettably stupid thing. “...She’s German?”

“No, of course she’s not German, why would she spend her last moments writing an angry word in _German_?” Jim began looking up UK weather maps as he laid everything out. “She’s from out of town, yes. Intended to stay in London for only one night before returning home to--here it is, Cardiff. That’s in Wales,” he added helpfully in Anderson’s direction.

“I know where Cardiff is,” Anderson ground out. “You’re just making all that up.”

Jim looked at Lestrade again.

Lestrade sighed. “Anderson, please shut your mouth before I shut the door. Jim? Anything? Time’s up.”

Anderson mouthed _Jim?_ disbelievingly, but not, disappointingly, out loud. Pity; Jim wanted to see Lestrade shut the door in his face.

“I told you, plenty. But more importantly, where’s her suitcase?”

“Suitcase?”

“Yes, her suitcase,” Jim said impatiently. “She was up from Cardiff to stay in London for one night, probably having an assignation with one of her string of lovers. Probably a smallish one. The case, not the lover. So where is it?”

“Alright, back up and explain to me--how do you know she has a suitcase? Or...all the rest of it?”

Jim stared at Lestrade for a good long minute. He was beginning to remember why he so rarely graced the ordinary people with his personal attention. 

“Wedding ring’s dirty on the outside but not the inside. Only polishing it gets is getting removed. Not a happy marriage; the rest of her jewelry’s glowing. Her nails are too nice to be taking it off for work, so, personal reasons. Like infidelity. She must have had a string of lovers; it’d be too hard to pretend to be single with one. 

“And her coat! Didn’t you even look at her coat? It’s soaked! So, heavy rain in the last few hours, but not too long ago, she’s still wet. She turned up her collar against the wind but her umbrella’s dry. So, there must have been strong winds. Where had heavy rain and strong wind in the last, oh, two to three hours? Employ some Google and--there you go, it’s Cardiff.

“Look at how color-coordinated she is, heels to nails; this was a professional, probably media considering her choice of decor. Must’ve had a phone or organizer, all those types do. Need to find that, might have a clue as to why she was writing Rachel--and of course she was writing Rachel, why would a serial adulterer in an unhappy marriage from Cardiff choose, as her _final word_, some angry nonsense in German? No, no, no, no, no. The mobile’s the key and it’s got to be with the suitcase. 

“The suitcase! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it yet? Must I do everything for you? Look at the right leg: splash marks on the right heel and calf but not the left. She was pulling one along behind her with her right hand. (She’s left-handed by the way. That’s why she scratched that word out with her left hand. Tell me you didn’t miss _that_, at least?). Spread of splash marks says smallish suitcase, I told you; just an overnight bag. Look at her clothes! Splash marks wouldn’t allow for something large enough for a multi-night stay. Cause of death: asphyxiation, mostly likely passed out and choked on her own vomit.”

Jim stopped talking, catching his breath; he was aware that he’d been pacing, gesturing; he always did when he was thinking, even if it was thinking out loud for the benefit of a pair of _plains apes_.

“Oh, now, there’s no way you could know all that,” Anderson burst out.

Lestrade shut the door. Anderson’s face was quite priceless.

As a reward, Jim admitted to him and him alone, “He’s right. I’m not a doctor. But I do read the papers, and there have been three--four--of these things. She ate the poison and she’s on her face. So, probably asphyxiation.” Nasty way to go; it was one of the reasons he’d never tried to hang himself. _Quick_ was one of his criteria for dying.

“I’ll let you know the autopsy results,” Lestrade said. 

“And ask around about the suitcase!” Jim called. “I’ll wait downstairs. If it’s not here, I know where it’ll be.”

Jim left Lestrade making inquiries, humming as he hopped down the stairs. He was still full up with fizz over the murder, the simple delight of having a puzzle to really sink his teeth into. 

Anderson followed him out for some unearthly reason, and sour-faced Donovan met them at the door. Jim sauntered out past them, wanting fresh air and room to move while he waited for Lestrade’s report.

“Freak,” Anderson said as he walked off. Jim stopped. He had been called worse than that throughout his life--had been called worse than that by his own mother. From an idiot like Anderson it hardly even qualified as speech, let alone an insult. But Jim was full up with fizz and he had never taken the high road in his life. The low road was always far more fun.

Time to teach these bobbies a lesson. He wasn’t gracing them with the considerable bounty of his intellect for _their_ sakes.

Jim strolled back up to Anderson and gave him a companionable clap on his shoulder. “Enjoying your wife’s holiday?”

“How could you possibly know--” Anderson began, before what passed for his brain caught up and he shut up. God, ordinary people were so _predictable_. 

“Well,” said Jim, sniffing theatrically in the direction of first one then the other--”your deodorant’s on the good Sergeant here, for one thing. So I know _somebody_ didn’t make it home last night.” 

Jim followed up by giving Donovan a smile he didn’t let it reach his eyes. It was the kind of look, in fact, that had once led his mother to tell his father he was ‘a bit hollow’ when she’d thought he was asleep. Jim didn’t mind being hollow, as a rule. You could fill empty vessels with all sorts of things, and people simply lined up to do it for you, if you showed them a great big hole and gave them a few tantalizing suggestions. It was very handy in his line(s) of work. 

Donovan’s hand was half-raised in a fist before she stalled it. (Good instincts!) Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you implying?” 

“Oh, I think you _both_ know exactly what I’m _saying_,” he purred. Jim leaned in toward her, not bothering to lower his voice. The nearby coppers were starting to glance their way, trying to listen in without appearing to listen in. If nothing else, he’d set the gossip mill churning tonight. “The state of your _knees_, my dear. Rowr! You don’t honestly expect anyone to believe you spent last night at _his_ place because you were all tuckered out by...scrubbing his floors?” He smirked, giving her a rake with his eyes as he leaned back.

Donovan looked like she was seriously reconsidering the fist, witnesses be damned. Anderson had turned an off-putting reddish shade and was sputtering. “That’s--I’ve never--LESTRADE! Get this--_deviant_ out of my crime scene!”

“Time for you to go, freak,” Donovan said coolly. Jim gave her his sunniest smile, as if what she said couldn’t do anything to him, because it couldn’t. He’d have to care about her in order to care about the words that poured out of her flapping mouth, and, well, he didn’t. Nothing personal. He never did.

“I was just on my way,” he said airily, but didn’t move, alerted by the sound of Lestrade’s descending footsteps. 

Lestrade paused at the doorway and took in the tableau of his two red-faced subordinates glaring at Jim, the other coppers hastily pretending they hadn’t been listening. “What the hell happened here?”

“Just demonstrating the benefits of my intellect,” Jims said brightly. He patted the put-upon Detective Inspector on the cheek. “Search for the suitcase. Won’t be more than five minutes’ drive away. Probably pink; Wilson’s a lady who likes a theme.”

“How do you--”

“Because the killer must have kept her suitcase by accident.” Maybe he could forestall the dull sputtering and gaping if he just gave Lestrade the explanation now. “That could have only happened if he’d driven her to Lauriston Gardens. Probably took about five minutes to figure it out; he’d panic, no easy way to get rid of something like _that_. Just search every backstreet wide enough for a car.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re wasting--”

“Gregory, please. Let’s not play this silly little game. You _asked_ me to help. Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to wait for the killer to toss a few more corpses on the pile before you start? Because if you are, why did you even bother to call me here? My time _is_ pretty valuable, and you’ve wasted quite a lot of it, if so.”

Lestrade looked a little stricken at the thought of more murders. “Right. I’ll get right on it.” He glanced again between Jim and Donovan and Anderson, before visibly deciding he did not want to know.

Jim continued walking backwards towards the cordon, in the direction of the main street. He held up a hand at one ear, middle three fingers folded down, and waggled it against his jaw: the universal sign for “CALL ME! When you find the case!”

  


* * *

  


At the main street, Jim decided to go for a bit of a stroll before catching a cab home. He was still feeling frisky and wanted to work a bit of it off. He wanted food, maybe a drink, almost certainly a screw. Actually, what he really wanted was the suitcase and all its delights in front of him _right now_\--just not quite enough to go digging around in rubbish tips for it. What good were the police if not for all the icky grunt work?

He spotted the car coming for him, of course. It was mostly cabs on the road, this time of night, this day of the week, this neighborhood. A sleek black Jaguar with government plates stood out like a gunshot. He glanced up carefully to mark the nearest CCTV (functional facial recognition really was a boon to surveillance abusers everywhere) even as he veered away from the curb. No need to make it _easy_ for the shadowy government agents to grab him for another little chat with Himself.

As he passed a cherry-red phone box, the phone inside started ringing. Jim ignored it, ducking into the first crowded pub he saw. Everyone was preoccupied watching some sportsball match or the other. A loud cheer went up as he eeled his way toward the back and Jim took advantage of the distraction to lift an a hat and then a coat from a couple someones sitting towards the end of the bar. He tugged on both as he slipped the back entrance. 

In the alley, Jim slowed his gait a little, as if a bit tipsy, letting the hat hide his face as he felt his way along the wall, orienting himself in his mental map of London. He couldn’t stay long like this; the coat and hat didn’t match his very nice trousers, and even if CCTV lost him, the hat was an imperfect disguise to flesh-and-blood eyes at best--

But by the time the Jaguar had pulled up to the pub and disgorged two MI6 agents to realize that he wasn’t in there any longer, Jim was already on his way down the block. The coat was well-worn but quite warm; he’d be sorry to let it go. He found cash and a pair of cheap reading glasses in the pockets. In the reflections of shop windows he could see one of the agents, a big ginger bloke, pushing his way down the street towards him. Whatever happened to the “secret” part of being a secret agent?

Jim spotted a night club bustling with loud music and neon, a row of cabs waiting hopefully for the evening’s entertainment to end. Perfect. He paid his way in using the cash he’d found, neatly draping the hat and coat on someone’s empty chair as he passed. He slipped on the reading glasses he’d also found, loosening his tie and rumpling his shirt. Things were slightly blurry with the glasses on, but hopefully he wouldn’t need them for long.

The ginger caught up to him quickly and shoved his way inside. Jim was having difficulty with the crowd as he made his way to the bar, but he’d counted on that. When the ginger shoved his way him and grabbed his arm, he screamed loud enough to be heard over the music. Certainly loud enough for the staff to hear. 

“Peter! What are you doing here?” he yelled. Shocked and afraid. 

The ginger stared back at him in confusion. 

“Did you--did you _follow me from work_?” he demanded, still loud enough for the staff to hear. And even if they couldn’t, well, between the glasses, the smallness of him, the way he cringed away from the ginger’s hard grip, he knew the kind of picture he made. Vulnerable. Trapped. Doe eyes begging for help. “Peter, you can’t keep doing this--”

The ginger, predictably, decided that he didn’t want to deal with a scene. He touched his ear to murmur into a radio (ooh, rookie move) and started hauling Jim toward the exit. 

Jim fought him. He couldn’t win, but he made it look good, letting panic seep into his voice. _Come on, come on_… he thought at the staff. “Peter! Peter, stop, you’re hurting me--”

Fortunately, the bouncer proved to not be one of the useless ones. “Sir,” he said, looming up in the ginger’s path. “I think you’d better let him go.”

“You don’t understand,” the ginger argued. “I’m--”

Jim screamed. “My arm,” he sobbed. A picture of agony. “Peter, you’re hurting me…”

The bouncer reached for ginger’s hand and pried it off. Ginger, clearly out of his depth, and unsure if this was an occasion for action against a well-intentioned civilian, let him do it. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Jim babbled, clutching his arm as he stumbled away. One of the other staff swooped up to him and quickly ushered him past the bar.

“Out the back with you, we’ll stall him here,” she whispered in his ear with a comforting squeeze. And off Jim went, pulling off his tie and jacket. He swerved past the employee break room, which was empty and lined with cubbies for employees’ belongings. He swapped out someone’s battered green hoodie for his suit jacket and tie (silently glad he had not worn his favorite Westwood tonight). He pulled the hoodie on as he quickly retraced his steps back to the floor. The commotion with Tony and the ginger was still ongoing. 

Jim flipped up the hood of his stolen jacket as he hit the crowd; he kept his posture as tall and open as possible, moving from group to group, careful to keep people between him and the ginger currently making a fuss. As he neared the entrance, he spotted a group of drunken friends heading for the exit and joined them, diving into the middle where their greater height would disguise him. And when they dispersed into the waiting cabs, he wobbled into one with a man too soused to realize that Jim was not, in fact, his good friend Andy from Accounting. 

The cabbie was taking them through a bustling shopping district, still reasonably crowded even late on a weekday. A transit hub, full of buses and a tube station nearby. Jim could use this. He tapped on driver’s shoulder and held out a 50-pound note taken from his insensible cab mate’s wallet.

“Let me off here,” he said. “Then take this poor bastard home and ask for the real fare.”

The cabbie glanced at him, her expression questioning, but she took the money and pulled over. Jim hopped out and started down the street. 

As far as he could tell the Jag hadn’t followed him, so the cabbie and the hoodie had bought him a bit of distance. And if Anthea stopped to extricate ginger from his little altercation at the club, it might’ve bought him even more. That didn’t mean he wasn’t being tracked, though. How long did it take the secret service to use extra-legal surveillance to track a man across the city, anyway? No doubt Anthea was texting someone in great annoyance, while someone else was frantically scanning for his face with the CCTV. He kept the hood up and his head down, hands in his hoodie pockets as if he were cold (which he was).

But here, Jim was in a crowd. Crowds were good. If Mycroft’s people caught up and made a grab for him, he’d scream, do the desperate ex bit again (points off for a repeat, but it wasn’t as if he’d had time to prepare), but this time in public. See if Mycroft wanted him badly enough to put up with the fuss of manhandling him into a car before an excitable crowd with smartphones. MI6 could certainly clean it all up, confiscate the devices and doctor the footage, but Jim was fairly sure that he wasn’t worth the effort. If he could just give them one more slip…

He saw a likely looking bus, sinking into the crowd of passengers pressing into the doorway. (Jim paid for his fare with the Oyster card he’d palmed from his dozing cab mate’s wallet.) His disguise would be better if he had some sort of bag, different shoes, anything to push the role of overworked young person heading home from a late night at work or dinner, but hopefully he’d be good enough. The glasses were back on (oh, he was going to need some aspirin when he got home) and the hood down; when he got inside, it was standing room only, which was fine. He stood at an angle, careful to keep his arm up holding the strap and obscuring half his face. He thought he saw the Jag pull up just as the bus pulled away. But maybe it was just another anonymous black sedan. 

The bus he’d picked didn’t take him right home, of course. He rode it for a few stops, then got off at another crowded interchange, changed buses, headed in an entirely different direction, got off, switched to the Tube, and then--finally--climbed into a cab and gave directions back to a block of condos near, but not too near, his own. There, he mimed looking at his phone with impatience, as if meeting someone, and cased the road for any likely look Jaguars (or overly attentive CCTV).

Nothing. 

Jim let himself into his building, took the stairs up to his unit, and assessed his front door for signs of any forced entry. 

Nothing.

He unlocked the door and let it slip open as he darted a hand in to flip on the lights.

Nothing.

Jim finally let himself relax and stepped inside. He wandered through the still-dark living room to peer through the curtains, which overlooked the street. Still nothing.

He didn’t mistake the sight of an empty road for safety, though. Jim was quite certain that Mycroft knew where his main abode was. He probably just didn’t want to play that particular card just yet. One day Jim was going to wake up with the business end of an umbrella pointed at his throat and, well, what would happen next didn’t really bear thinking about. But the fact that no black Jag with government plates had been waiting for him suggested that day was not going to be that day--though he didn’t doubt he’d be seen Anthea again sooner or later. 

One day he was really going to have to get Mycroft to tell him what he’d done to earn the quite personal ire of the man who, quote unquote, was the entire British government and secret service, but that day was not today. 

Today, Jim was home, and he was free. And tomorrow, Lestrade would have news for him, and the game would continue. He could take comfort in that.


	3. The Pill in the Bottle

The next morning found Jim lying on the floor staring at the ceiling while _The Best of Queen_ played on the stereo. Lestrade called at what must have been as soon as he got into the office--though Jim had been up since half past five, unable to sleep and impatient for news. 

“Moriarty?”

“Jim. Or James, if you really must.”

“I’ll stick with Jim. Jim, we found the suitcase. Exactly where you said it would be.”

“And? How alarmingly pink is it?”

“It’s--I’d say fairly. It’s fairly alarming. What should we do next?”

“Is there a mobile?”

“A what? No, no mobile.”

“Text me a picture of her luggage tag.”

“What do you need a picture of her luggage tag for?”

“Consultation.”

Jim received a picture of a pink luggage tag that appeared to be attached to an equally pink suitcase. Both were, indeed, alarmingly pink.

“What now?” said Lestrade.

“I’m going to put you on hold.”

Jim left Lestrade listening to this hold music (_Last Christmas I gave you my heart_… Jim always picked earworms for his hold music, because being put on hold should always be an occasion for suffering.) as he got up, turned off the Queen, and wandered into the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. Then he dug out one of the half-dozen burner phones in his kitchen stash and sent Jennifer Wilson’s mobile number a text.

> What happened at Lauriston Gardens?  
I must have blacked out.  
22 Northumberland Street.
> 
> Please come.

He look Lestrade off hold.

“I’ve just texted Jennifer Wilson’s phone,” Jim said, slurping his coffee as loudly as possible. “If she’d lost it, there won’t be a response. If she hadn’t lost it, the murderer has it. Are you following? We’ll know which one it is if we get a response. Now, Rachel.”

“Yes, what about Rachel?”

“What have you found out?”

“It’s only been one night!”

“Yes, but you started the credit card trace before calling me.”

“Right, right…” There was a sound like shuffling papers, clicking sounds; Lestrade checking his inbox on both the digital and analog planes, presumably. “Here we go. Looks like Rachel was the name of her daughter.”

“Ooh! I smell a hint of family intrigue. Where is she?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “She’s dead. Stillborn fourteen years ago.”

“Ah. Well, that’s a _dead end_, then.”

The silence that descended was awkward enough to tell Jim that Lestrade didn’t appreciate his joke. Well, he couldn’t reasonably be expected to feel sorry for a dead baby, especially one that’d been in the ground for over a decade to boot.

Fortunately, the silence didn’t last too long, as the burner started ringing. Blocked number.

“The murderer’s got her phone,” Jim said triumphantly. “He just got a text from his last victim’s phone; he’s panicked. I told him to come to 22 Northumberland Street. Might want to get yourself over there.”

Lestrade cursed and hung up.

  


* * *

  


Lestrade was furious when he called back. “Out of town. He was from out of town!”

“Sorry, who?”

“The man in the cab!”

“He was from out of town?” The man in the cab… Something didn’t feel right about that. _The_ man in _the_ cab...

“It’s over, Jim. This--whatever it is, it’s over. Now get--”

It was on the tip of his tongue...on the tip of his...

“--yourself down to the Yard and--”

He hung up.

  


* * *

  


Jim put his phone on silent and pondered his next move. He was loathe to admit it, but Lestrade’s little hissy fit had hit him, right in the squishy bits he was loathe to admit to existing. 

That was fine. It had been a long shot anyway. He had over avenues to explore.

(It galled him to have been wrong, he had to admit.)

Jim went back to the luggage tag. Underneath the mobile number was an email address: _jenny.pink@mephone.org.uk_. Email through her wireless carrier? Worth a shot. He looked up the website and tried the email as a username and “Rachel” as the password, since… Why else would she have been writing it? It had to be important somehow. It had to.

Fortunately it worked, or he’d have had to spend even more time tracking down his second, or possibly even third, favorite techie to hack the password for him and that was just _so_ much effort. And he didn’t like the thought of calling someone else in. It felt a bit like...cheating. This was supposed to be a gift for _him_.

Once he was in her account, the first thing he noticed was the tab that said “Find my phone!” He clicked on it, and watched as a miniature map of London sprawled over his screen, along with a little loading icon. A picture of the phone and its specs were displayed next to the map: smartphone. That explained the email, then. And smartphone meant GPS, meant location tracking. Jim thought of CCTV, cameras with their round dark eyes tracking him across the city.

The map finished loading. He watched as the little phone icon zipped across London. The phone was in motion? But who…

Oh. _Oh._

The man in the cab, Lestrade had said. _The_ man. But it hadn’t been just one man in the cab, had it? Who could hunt in the heart of London? Who else could snatch men and women of all ages and social classes off busy streets without a word? Who else did you trust even if you didn’t know them? And Lestrade had just let the driver go! Had he even tried to question him? Honestly, Jim despaired of Scotland Yard. Clearly, if you wanted something done right, you needed to really put some _effort_ into vetting your lackeys. There was a _reason_ his techies had a hierarchy. 

He wondered if Jennie Wilson had left her phone in the cab on purpose. If so, hats off to her--and Jim tipped his imaginary hat to her anyway, as he watched the phone icon race hither and yon across London. He could be generous in giving her credit. After all, Jennie Wilson’s cleverness was about to bring him his gift

Jim texted Jennifer Wilson’s phone again from the burner he’d used before:

> 9pm. New Scotland Yard.  
Your code word is PINK.

  


* * *

  


At 9:03 that night, Jim was standing outside New Scotland Yard, tucked in some convenient shadows. A cab, one like any other, drew up to the curb and stopped. The cabbie slid out of the driver’s seat and gazed up at the building with a thoughtful air. This time of night, even New Scotland Yard was quiet and empty; it was, for now, just the two of them. 

Jim studied the cabbie from his hiding place. Older man, worn clothes, wire-framed glasses on a pinched face. Shocks of white poked out from under his cap as he bent his head over a smartphone with an alarmingly pink case.

The burner beeped in his pocket:

> COME WITH ME.

...Well. Who was Jim to refuse an invitation? He detached himself from the shadows and approached.

“Taxi for…?” the cabbie said invitingly.

“Mr. Pink,” Jim said. 

The cabbie tucked the phone away in his jacket. “Nearly didn’t come when I saw that message.”

“But here you are.”

“And here I am. Why do you think that is, do you suppose?”

“I’m the only one who’s guessed your secret,” Jim said, teeth bared in a grin. “Couldn’t resist the chance to tie off a loose end?”

“Nah. Nah. If you’d had coppers waiting, I’d’ve gone quietly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“I heard you were a funny one, Mr. Pink,” the cabbie said solemnly. He opened the passenger door. “Let’s talk on the way, you and me. After you.”

Jim got in the cab. The cabbie took his time settling in the driver’s seat, pulling away as smoothly as you pleased. He didn’t turn on the meter. 

“I know what you want, Mr. Pink,” the cabbie said, as they merged into traffic. “You’re curious. You don’t care about the bodies. You want to know how it happened. How I killed them.”

“Poison. Bit boring. Even the part where you made them kill themselves.”

“But you see, Mr. Pink, I didn’t kill them. I spoke to them, and they killed themselves. And you want to know, don’t you? What I said to make them do it.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere where you’ll find out.”

“And then you kill me too?”

“No, Mr. Pink.” The cabbie caught Jim’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “I’m going to speak to you, and you’re going to kill yourself.”

They rode on in silence for a while. Jim absently charted their path through the city (he’d be paying through the nose for this route, if the meter were on). For once, being trapped in a car didn’t make him want to blast music in his ears until his teeth rattled. He fizzed, he was alive, so alive he could fly. He cataloged pieces: a trace of shaving cream on the cabbie’s ear, a photo of two laughing children with the woman cut out.

“How did you know?” Jim asked, mostly to fill the silence. 

“Know what?”

“That I was a funny one.”

“A little birdie told me. Someone who’s noticed you.”

“Me? Noticed _me_? Don’t just smile at me, spill it. Who?”

“You have a fan, Mr. Pink. A very big fan.”

“Flattering. But who is it?”

The cabbie just smiled again. Jim scowled.

They continued in silence once more. Jim’s mind churned as he watched the streetlights flashing by. A fan. A _fan_. He wondered if the mystery texter could properly be called a fan. _Patience_, he’d said, in that very first text. He meant to contact Jim again, then, had a plan for how he wanted to do it. He’d, what, _made_ this serial killer? found this serial killer? as a gift, a bouquet of four suicides more perfectly perplexing than any dozens of roses. That counted as a fan, had to. Jim didn’t know much about being a fan. Most things weren’t worth the investment.

The cab pulled to a stop in front of a pair of dilapidated buildings. Jim’s mental map of London supplied a name. 

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” he announced, as they got out of the car. “A fine institution of higher learning. Why are we here?”

“It’s open, the cleaners are in. Cabbies always know the best place for a murder.” The cabbie flashed him a nasty little smirk, pleased at his own joke. “Shall we?”

Jim glanced over at him. The cabbie had pulled out a gun. Menacing enough if you didn’t encounter them on a daily basis, but to Jim’s experienced eye his grip was unpracticed, and as for the gun itself--well. 

“Well, that’s _dull_. I was hoping for something a little more exciting.”

The gun vanished. “Oh, don’t worry. It gets better. Come on.”

  


* * *

  


As Jim and the cabbie were walking into one of the buildings, another man (thirties, weatherbeaten, neatly trimmed brown hair), got in a cab himself. He told the cabbie--this one definitely not a serial killer--to go to Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He watched his hand-me-down phone for further instructions and kept his service pistol handy.

  


* * *

  


The classroom the cabbie chose was on the top floor, with windows that must have let in a very nice amount of sunlight during the day, but during the night merely looked cold and a bit spooky. It was filled with long rows of tables lined with scuffed plastic chairs. The cabbie gestured for Jim to take a seat--he did--and swung a chair around to sit in, so they were facing each other.

“So,” Jim said. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward on the cheap table. “What happens now?”

“Time for a little chat.”

“We’ve already had a little chat.”

“Alright, then it’s time for a little game.”

Jim grinned. “_Now_ you’ve got my attention.”

The cabbie reached into his pocket and produced a little glass bottle. Inside was a single largish pill, the casing filled with grains of white and a few of red. Jim tilted his head like a puzzled bird.

“Haven’t got it yet? That’s alright. This is the best bit. I love this bit. ‘Cos all I’ve got to do is...” The cabbie reached into a different pocket and whipped out his hand, producing an identical bottle with an identical pill. He set it down and pushed both bottles forward.

Jim’s head tilted the other way. “And now what?”

“And now, Mr. Pink, you choose. There’s a good bottle, and there’s a bad bottle. Eat the pill out of the good bottle and you live. Eat the pill out of the bad bottle and you die.”

“And naturally they’re completely identical.”

“Naturally.”

“And you know which is which?”

“Of course. _You’re_ the one who has to choose. Wouldn’t be much of a game if there wasn’t an answer.”

“Is this all?” Jim felt a bit disappointed, to be honest. “I’ve got nothing to go on, no clues, no puzzle, no _logic_. Why should I do a single thing except sit here and count the cracks in the ceiling?”

“Ah, well, here’s the _real_ best bit. Whichever one you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, like good little boys, we take our medicine.” 

“Oh. _Oh_. You’re right, that _is_ the real best bit.” Jim picked up one of the bottles idly, studying the pill in it with undisguised delight. “That’s how you did it, isn’t it? You gave them each a _choice_. But this isn’t really a game, is it? It’s chance. Maths. Fifty-fifty’s enough to get the blood pumping, but it’s not exactly chess, now, is it?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Pink. I’ve played four times and lived to tell the tale. That’s not chance. That’s chess. One move. One survivor.”

“You’re right,” Jim admitted, setting the bottle down. He put his free hand on its twin, idly sliding them this way and that, round and round again, as he talked. “It _is_ chess--but it’s a much more interesting game than the one you’ve described. Tell me--why on earth would you risk your life four times in a row on a fifty-fifty chance? The odds are increasingly against you. Probability doesn’t like a winning streak.”

“Talk’s over, Mr. Pink. Time to play.” He seemed nervous as he watched Jim’s hands move the bottles around. Jim still knew which was which, of course. Did _he_? 

“Oh, but I _am_ playing. Just not with you.” Jim sat back with the bottles, juggling them idly, first one way, then the other. “Can’t be a misplaced grudge, woman-hating tendencies, no, no, no, no, no. No pattern to your victims. It’s got to be something far more interesting than that. You’re single and divorced. She took the kids, but you think of them often. Isn’t that sad? People always want what they can’t have.”

The cabbie looked stunned. Jim kept his hands moving. Faster, faster.

“And judging by your clothes, you’re not in the habit of thinking of ahead. Well, definitely not, if you’re playing this little game.” He tapped both bottles against the table, forcefully, the sound rocketing around the still room, counterpoint to the cabbie’s quick, harsh breaths. “Let’s see… Must have been...three years ago? When they told you.”

“Told me what?” Clearly stalling. Jim gently set down the bottles and and slammed both palms on the table, knocking them over. The cabbie scrambled to grab them before they could roll off and shatter.

“That you were DYING!” Jim snarled. Why couldn’t people ever _keep up_? The cabbie rocked back in his chair, as if volume could be a physical force. 

“A-Aneurysm,” the cabbie said. He gathered himself, some semblance of wit reappearing. “Could be any minute. And yet, I’ve still outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can have, with an aneurysm.”

“But why? Why, why, why.” Jim dropped his chin into one hand, studying him. “You can’t be doing this just because you’re _bitter_. No, no, no, no, no. Bitter people drink themselves into an early grave, they sulk, they _fester_. Say, how much can a cabbie leave his two beloved tots after unexpected death, anyway?”

The cabbie shrugged. “Not much money in driving cabs.”

“Or murder.” Jim thought for a moment. “At least, the way you do it.”

“You’d be surprised.” The cabbie leaned forward, delighted to have gotten another one over Jim. “You see, Mr. Pink...I have a sponsor.”

Jim’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned forward too. “A sponsor?”

“A sponsor. Every person I kill, a little more goes to my kids. Nice work if you can get it.”

“Oh, that is _brilliant_,” Jim breathed. Honestly, he was a little jealous. All of the fun of serial killing without any of the fuss. “What kind of person sponsors a serial killer?” What kind of person humiliates the police via anonymous mass text for fun?

“What kind of person’s a fan of James Moriarty?”

Jim looked at him, truly shocked for the first time. The cabbie smirked and tapped his nose. “There’s someone else out there, someone just like you.”

“Yes, I know that,” Jim snapped, though he hadn’t really, until this moment. _What kind of person’s a fan of James Moriarty?_ Someone exactly like James Moriarty, obviously. “And who is he, this...other me?”

“There’s a name that no one says, and I won’t either. That’s all you’ll get out of me, Mr. Pink. Time to make a choice.”

Jim gently swapped the bottles, so they were exactly as they’d been before he picked them up. Or were they? (They were.) “What if I don’t choose?”

“You’ll choose.”

“I might,” he allowed, though he absolutely had no intention of not choosing.

“You will.” The cabbie pulled out his gun again. “Or, I suppose, you could take a bullet through the head.”

“I told you, poison’s _bo-ring_,” Jim sing-songed the last word as he wrapped his fingers around the cabbie’s wrist, moving his hand so the gun pointed directly between his eyes. “Go on, then,” he said. “Make my day.”

There was a long, tense moment. Then, with a sudden click, the cabbie pulled the trigger. Jim didn’t flinch. 

A flame danced out of the barrel.

“Don’t you think I know what a real gun looks like?” Jim smirked. “I suck one off every other day.”

“Then you’re the first,” the cabbie said. He let the flame go out and set the lighter-gun down. “Ready to choose?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

  


* * *

  


Across the way, in an identical, but darkened building, a man with a service pistol waited in the dark. He didn’t dare check for new texts; the light of his screen might give him away. But as he watched a small figure in a good suit stand and reach for a tiny bottle with a pill, he really hoped his flatmate was right about how this was all going to happen. Because if he turned out to have been wrong, he’d be even more insufferable than usual.

  


* * *

  


Jim didn’t bother deliberating; he’d gotten all his deliberating out of the way already. He snatched up one of the bottles, the second one, and shook the pill out onto his hand. He held it up to the light, admiring the way the harsh fluorescents caught on the grains, the chiaroscuro of light and shadow against each and every sphere. The cabbie shooked out his pill and held it ready. 

“On three?” he asked, ever pleasant.

Jim raised the pill to his mouth. “One. Two--”

There was a loud crack behind him, followed by the sound of falling glass. Red bloomed on the cabbie’s shoulder as he went down.

Jim cast a hasty glance over his back at the window--now sporting a sizable hole, as well as several sizable cracks--but there was no point; the far room was as dark as dark could be. He forgot the pills and lunged across the room, ramming his boot heel into the bullet wound and grinding it thoroughly as the man groaned in pain. “Who is it? _Who is your sponsor?_” he snarled.

The cabbie didn’t answer, just moaned. Blood pooled across the floor. Clearly he needed a bit more incentive to talk.

Jim leaned all his weight on his foot and hissed into the cabbie’s frightened face. “Give me a name, or I will find your dainty little children and I will make sure that they never see a penny of the blood money you’ve earned for them. You know who I am? Then you know what I can do. So GIVE!”--stomp--”ME!”--stomp--”A!”--stomp--”_NAME_!”--and he ground his heel into the wound again for good measure.

“Sh...Sherlock!” the cabbie wailed. Jim let up. 

“Good boy,” he cooed, patting him on the cheek. By his pallor, the cabbie was not long for this world. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He got comfy in the teacher’s chair, out of the way of the blood, and called Lestrade.

  


* * *

  


Jim was rather tired by the evening’s exertions, so he was quite grateful when the nice paramedics sat him down on the ambulance and draped a bright orange blanket around his shoulders. It was getting a bit nippy out (even though he’d remembered to bring a coat this time, though not gloves) and a fuzzy blanket was just the thing to take the edge off the chill. 

Lestrade strode up to him. He stood some space away and cleared his throat. “So...the cabbie.”

“_The_ man in the cab,” Jim murmured. “But it’s never just one man, is it?”

“You got him, though.”

“So I did. Do I get a medal?” Jim didn’t know what the police handed out medals for. Did they even hand out medals? He should look it up.

“Not our department, I’m afraid.” Lestrade cleared his throat again. “Doing all right there, Jim?”

“No, I’m in shock.” He flicked orange at him. “Can’t you see I’ve got a blanket?”

“...Right,” Lestrade said. He opened up a notebook, how quaint. “Think you can tell us anything about the shooter?”

“Crack shot to have made that kill with a handgun. Not just a marksman, though. He must have been used to a bit of rough and tumble. His hands didn’t shake, though he must’ve been waiting before hand, lining up the shot. So, you want a man with a history of military service and nerves of steel. No shortage of those about, eh?”

Lestrade dutifully noted that all down and sighed. “We’ll be in touch. At the very least, we’ll need an official statement.”

“Oh, _statements_,” Jim said disdainfully. He really hoped Lestrade didn’t actually think he’d go down to Scotland Yard for something as boring as all that.

  


* * *

  


Somewhere else, a shooter with a history of military service and nerves of steel was washing powder burns off his fingers, content in the knowledge that it all had gone exactly as planned. Things usually go exactly as planned when _he_ does the planning. 

“So?” he asked, when all the evidence was gone. “What do you think?”

Pale fingers steepled. “I think he’ll do quite nicely.”

  


* * *

  


Jim was in a fine mood as he strolled away from Roland-Kerr, swishing his new blanket about himself like a cape. He’d had a fun game, and had another, larger one in the opening moves. He was not pleased, but also not terribly surprised, to have it spoiled by a black Jaguar with government plates pulling up to the curb beside him when he reached the main street. No running this time: Anthea, she of the low neckline and killer right hook, stepped out, square into his path. She was smiling, but the set of her eyes said she was done fucking around now.

“Anthea, my sweet!” he cried, giving her a quick look. “How are you! Shame about Bongo. Well, not really. Cats are nasty little things. All that hissing and biting. I quite like cats.”

The lines around her eyes tightened. “Get in the car, Jimbo.”

She only used nicknames when she was well and truly pissed. Probably he oughtn’t have needled her about the recently deceased kitty, but as she was part of a shadowy government agency whisking him away to parts unknown for another round of interrogation or at the very least extra-legal harassment, Jim felt he was perfectly within his rights to not play nice. 

“I’m touched he still bothers with all this cloak and dagger,” he said, as he got into the car. “A boy likes to feel appreciated.”

Anthea ignored him. The car pulled away. Jim sat back and closed his eyes.

  


* * *

  


After a touchingly circuitous route--in addition to having an entire map of London and its surrounds memorized, he also had GPS tracking on his phone--the Jag pulled into a deserted warehouse with all the lights on. Jim got out of the car, leaving his blanket behind, and stretched luxuriously as he glanced around. Standing in the glare of the headlights was a familiar face.

“Good evening, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft Holmes said pleasantly. He gestured with his umbrella. “Please, take a seat.”

Jim dragged the chair Mycroft had indicated back over the concrete with a loud and dismal screech, before throwing himself into it, lounging with an ankle crossed over one knee. “Mycroft,” he said in greeting. “Diet not going too well, I take it. Well, give it time. Or pick up a knife and start slicing. That’ll probably be faster. To what do I owe the honor?”

The dieting was really such low-hanging fruit, but as it always worked, and Jim had the scruples of a child in an unmanned candy store, he could never resist it.

Displeasure flickered briefly over Mycroft’s face before mild pleasantness reasserted itself. Jim counted it as a win. “It has come to my attention that you’ve been interfering with police investigations.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Jim wagged a finger. “I was _invited_ to interfere with _a_ police investigation. Get your facts right.”

“The terms of your most recent release included the provision that you were not to interfere with any government operations.”

“Since when does Scotland Yard count as government operations?” Jim scoffed. “All I did was help a few bumbling coppers catch a serial killer. Didn’t even ask for payment. I’d say that’s being a civically minded citizen of the United Kingdom, not interference with government operations.”

“Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft sighed. “Allow me make myself perfectly clear. Continue living your quiet little life consulting on quiet little problems, do _not_ interfere in any more police investigations--invited or otherwise--and I _won’t_ throw you back in MI6’s most isolated holding cell for questioning about your involvement in certain dealings of interest amongst the Cabinet ministers.”

Jim stayed perfectly relaxed in his seat; not a bit of him twitched, not even an eyelash. But something in the back of his head started screaming.

“What exactly is it,” he heard himself say, as if from a distance, “that you don’t want me to find?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t care about me helping Scotland Yard.” Jim dismissed the thought with a grand wave of his hand, watching Mycroft keenly, noting every fraction of a shift in his posture, expression, breathing. Still screaming. “So you must be afraid that me helping Scotland Yard is going to lead me to something else. Something _interesting_. Something you don’t want me to find. So I can’t help wondering, Mikey-my-darling--just _what is it_ that you’re so keen to keep away from me?”

He watched Mycroft’s very careful non-reaction to that: _Bingo._

“We’re done here,” Mycroft announced. “Think very carefully about what I’ve said, Mr. Moriarty, and do turn down Detective Inspector Lestrade the next time he gives you a call.” He strode briskly past Jim toward the waiting car, but paused just behind him. “And if you don’t, your cell is waiting for you. You might be pleased to know that we haven’t bothered to scrub the walls.”

More footsteps, doors slamming shut, the squeal of the Jag peeling away. Still screaming. Leaving Jim all alone in a creaky chair in the middle of a warehouse with all the lights still on. Still screaming. It was really too bad the equipment was all too large for him to steal. A bit of mayhem always helped him feel better. Still screaming. 

Still screaming. 

Still screaming.

He was out in the open, out in the light, and while he was (still screaming) alone, if he walked very briskly for the next 15 minutes he soon wouldn’t be. At least he had his phone. Music would (still screaming) help nearly as much as a bit of mayhem would’ve.

At the bright mouth of the warehouse, he dug out his headphones and put them on. As he stepped out of the building, he hit “Shuffle,” and let the songs serenade him back to the main streets.

  


* * *

  


The moment Jim returned to his (open, well-lit, noisy) flat, he dashed off a message to his mystery texter(/fan).

> Not nice, interrupting my climax.  
JM

  


> The cabbie was a test.

  


> How did I do?  
JM

  


> Flying colors.  
You’ll be hearing from me again.

The Chordettes sang as he typed his reply: _Give him the word that I’m not a rover… Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over…_

> I look forward to it.  
xoxo  
Jim

He grinned as he hit “Send.” 

Game on.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ivory_and_horn) where I post fic updates and such.
> 
> I planned to write six fics to cover the first two seasons of Sherlock, but lost steam after finishing this first part. However, I still have pretty extensive outlines/notes from planning, so feel free to ask questions about this AU in the comments.


End file.
